Let Love Grow
by LtLunacy
Summary: War had tied them, blood had wound them, but love is an entirely different matter that neither know how to cultivate. Winters/Roe
1. Chapter 1

_This, dear readers, is merely in existence due not only to a severe lack in Winters/Roe, but also the few beautiful pieces that feature this pairing. And so, I owe this to those authors, who hooked and reeled me in and made me write this, my longest story to date. It doesn't have a set plot, it is not beta'd, it is hardly realistic, but I hope you love it as much as I do._

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><p>One of Winters' clearest of childhood memories was that of going to church. He recalls the stiff wooden pew seats and equally-stiff suit he was made to wear by his parents. His patience grew with his weariness on those sultry Sunday mornings, and the pastor's voice faded with the hum of still life, of whispering tree branches; the harshness of religion dulling with the warmth of sunshine filtering through stained glass, the dust gliding along the gentle winds, pushed by his mother's fan as she attempted to cool herself. Hazy, he was silent; fidgeting was too much unnecessary exertion in the tight July heat.<p>

Children were expected to be quiet in church, but that much was governed well enough by the wooden paddle that sat in clear view by the front row, a section reserved for especially difficult children. Winters had been there once, and was determined to stay by his mother's side since. The paddle itself was fearful, but even more so was the steel-eyed gaze of the pastor.

And so it was not lack of disruption the church cared about. It was that the children learned, from a young age, the terrors of sin. Sunday school was composed of impassioned speeches of the horrors of hell. Faith, marriage, and modesty – that was the path to take. Avoidance of doubt, sex, and skin would show you your way to heaven. It was cookie-cutter clear, how to fit in with society, and Winters was just as determined as any other child in his class to do good by his Lord. Yet, he wondered if happiness was part of the equation. There seemed to be so many things to remember not to do, so many bad things in the world.

But he dare not ask. His hands stayed in his lap, where they could not be smacked, and his lips tight close, so they could not catch flies.

Besides, Sunday mornings passed, and green afternoons came with the promise of bare feet and lemonade, and happiness, or some semblance to it, seemed to be there.

"Sir."

Winters had quickly learned to become accustomed with this title, and looked up to the source of the voice. There stood Roe, pale face lined by darker-than-pitch hair, looking peaked and a bit weak, though that was only to be expected. It was Bastogne, and no man, no soldier, no officer could be expected to withhold her cruel elements. Especially not Roe, the man trying to shield the others from Bastogne's eminent wear. He may have been doing a damned good job, but it was easy to see how badly the undertaking had scarred him.

"Yes, Gene."

"How's your ankle been doin', sir?"

Winters sighed, sitting on a makeshift stool, motioning Roe to take the other. "It's fine, Doc; I've already told you not to worry about it."

"Sorry, sir; it's my job."

Winters pressed his lips together, tempted to lick warmth to them, afraid of what the wind might do to the moisture.

"I know it is. But I'm fine – I promise you."

"Yes, sir." The formality sounded odd when it was directed towards him. Silence weighed down.

"How low are you on morphine?"

Roe look to the side, studying the trees; a flash of white appeared as he chewed on his lip.

"Roe?"

"I'm all out."

It was not shocking, but the gravity of it made the air seem colder then it was. No supplies, no new crates – running out of morphine, of bandages, it was all quite inevitable on paper. Yet, being in a state of unpreparedness made Winters feel especially vulnerable. He was sure Roe felt similarly, as though everything he had done to stretch every cloth had been so futile, and Winters wanted to comfort him, assure him.

But he didn't know how Roe felt, and wouldn't know the right words to say anyway. Not to Roe. There were never adequate words to say to the man, it seemed.

Winters said nothing, just stood and rubbed his hands together. He looked at the chromatic backdrop, a grayscale of the tall corpses of trees on winter white ground, overcast gray and dappled drab.

"I'm sorry," Roe said, voice sounding as empty and tired as the landscape around them.

"It's not you who should be sorry," Winters replied, truthfully. It was due to Roe that they had even lasted this long. "We'll… We'll figure this out._ I'll_ figure this out."

Roe stood, nodding, adjusting the sash of his supplies bag upon his shoulder, looking down. "Thank you sir." Finally, _finally_, looking up, eyes dark and sharp and deep as they met Winters' own. Roe held out his arm, and Winters absently took his hand, cold fingers wrapping around cold fingers. They didn't shake, just stood for one elongated second, and then separated.

Winters watched as Roe's silhouette jogged unhurriedly away, shadows of bodies mixing with shadows of tall, dead trees. He said a few prayers in his foxhole that night, wondering if God could hand out morphine to angels in army fatigues.


	2. Chapter 2

Summer passed, and school began in the familiar wooden school house with the traditional brass bell.

Report cards came and went, slips of paper marked with A's and the occasional B's, earning him proud smiles and affectionate gazes and even sweets. Dick was a good student: he paid attention, did the work, got along well with his classmates. Not only did the teachers like him, but his classmates as well, and he had enough friends to play ball games and war games alike.

The mid-September sun was indistinct in the calm blue sky, the air sharp but not biting. The grass was still green, the leaves just turning, the apples shiny and red. Behind the school house, Dick Winters held hands with Joanna Williams, who was sharing her shiny and red apple with him.

"Fresh from the farm," she had told him with a shy smile and a blush Dick couldn't quite understand. But it was a good apple - juicy, and crisp as the wind. Joanna Williams' hand was warm in his; the atmosphere was pleasant enough, even if there was something about it that Dick couldn't decode. Birdsong chimed in the backdrop, and a tree shivered as a robin burst free, a light silhouette against the Pennsylvania sky distracting Dick from the girl next to him for a split second.

Then, just as he turned back, Joanna Williams kissed him, a quick and innocent peck right on his lips. They were a tad sticky, and when Dick licked his lips to try to ascertain the feeling they tasted of apple juice. He opened his mouth to say something, though he wasn't sure what, but Joanna was already fleeing, giggles strewn carelessly behind her, skirt fluttering in the light breeze. He trailed her with a blank gaze, feeling a tad numb with shock. He had his hand poised in front of his face, to wipe away the lingering feeling of skin on skin, but stopped himself and let his hand fall again.

The next day, Joanna Williams' name was called in role before his yet again, and she smiled at him when he answered a math problem correctly, but they did not speak to one another.

- o -

The church is warm, and it is quiet, a haven amongst hell. Candlelight shines dully on the even duller faces of soldiers, the flickering flames making shadows dance along the traditional masonry. The polished wood of church pews is dusty, and the men find comfort in the seats. The choir's voices are consoling, soothing, and almost devastatingly different then the sounds of death along the snowy banks of Bastogne.

Winters watches from the doorway, eyelids sore and heavy, body worn and weary. His fingers fiddle with the rosary he has kept in his breast pocket, beads smooth and warm, as he watches the men, the boys, the soldiers – he watches them fall, rest, break down a little bit, and then heal a little bit more.

He watches Roe. He watches him, sitting straight in his seat, still bundled in every coat and cloth the army could spare for him and that Roe could not spare to give anyone else. He can almost imagine how his spine curves naturally with the back of the pew; can almost imagine the drips of melted snow water running down his warming face.

The choir changes keys, and their language changes from the religiousness of Latin to the romanticism of French.

Roe looks up, at the choir, and then turns his head towards Winters. Dark, tired, shining eyes, gleaming with understanding and firelight lock with Winters' own and he feels his body lock into place. A rustle of cloth, and Roe is moving towards him, shoulders hunching as he joins Winters in the cold outside of the church.

"Why aren't you inside, sir?" Roe's voice is quiet, hoarse; the man still insists with the formalities, even in the most pointless times.

Winters doesn't answer. There is a brief passing of silence, then, "How are you, Roe?"

"Pardon, sir?" He doesn't sound very confused, but his voice is polite.

"You've suffered the worst of any of us," Winters finds himself explaining, though he thinks it is not necessary. _Death, you're surrounded by it, how do you manage, how do you stay so strong? _"How are you holding up, Gene?"

Roe ducks his head; _why are you always avoiding eye contact, please look at me, please just look at – _"I … I ain't gonna lie; it's been… trying." Roe does look at him, with a mirthless smirk. Winters does his best to return it, but it comes out with more sympathy then satire.

"That seems like a really bad understatement." At this, Roe gives an exhaling chuckle that has at least some bit of humor in it, if only bleak. Winters feels that his smile is a bit more genuine.

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess so." Roe digs his hands further into his coat pockets. "How – How about you, sir?"

"Gene," Winters says, almost automatically, "don't call me 'sir.'" Roe gives him a weird look, so Winters adds, not without humor, "And that's an order."

Roe nods. "How are you doing, Richard?" Winters breathes a little easier. Even his formal name sounds familiar along Roe's tongue.

"I'm okay. I'm… tired, yes, but I think it's going to get better now."

Silence, but it's comfortable. Not demanding to be filled, just a stasis of calm. Simple. Tranquil. Winters wonders if he could share more of these comfortable silences with Roe. The oddest part is, part of him thinks he could spend a whole lifetime of silences with Roe and never become bored with it.

The song is quiet, the French words fluctuating with ease in the biting winds, and Winters is piercingly aware of the intimacy of the moment as he leans forward. It's awkward, and uncertain, because he's only done this with blushing girls in the darker rows of the cinemas back home. But Roe's eyes flutter shut, and Winters can make out every detail on the pale face before he closes his own eyes. Roe's breath, hot and quickening in pace, guides Winters forward. Roe inhales sharply, and then stops breathing altogether. Winters can feel the other man's heart flutter under his hands.

Lips meet.

The choir continues to sing.


	3. Chapter 3

Dick has never ridden a bike before, so the metal contraption on the front lawn causes him some anxiety. It is bright red, with a bow on the silver handlebars to match. It basks in the sunlight, catching and throwing sunlight in that fickle way clean metal tends to do. He father claps him on the back as he stands stock-still in the door frame. He says something encouragingly, proudly, and Dick feels his heart sink.

He smiles anyway.

As he approaches the bicycle, he realizes it's even larger and more daunting up close. He looks to his father, who is looking at him fondly, and clambers on as carefully as possible. Mr. Winters' hand is a heavy reassurance on his shoulder, his voice even more so.

"Promise not to let go?"

"I promise."

Putting on his brave face, straightening his shoulders, gripping ever-tighter on the handlebars, Dick pushes down with his foot and the bike lurches smoothly forward. He pushes with his other foot, then again, and the bike continues onward. He is wavering, but his father's hand keeps him steady. He is even beginning to enjoy this, the wind in his face almost as fulfilling as that of riding in an automobile with the windows open. His smile is small and genuine.

Then, his father's hand lifts from his shoulder, and his lifeline has been severed. It almost went unnoticed, but suddenly gravity feels so much stronger and Dick's heart is racing because he's not quite balanced and –

The bike wobbles, there is a shriek, and Dick is sprawled on the pavement with the bike heavy on his body. He hears his father call, but his mother's voice is louder and closer already. He sees her, blue eyes worried, lips in a tight line, but her hands are warm and gentle. He hardly feels any pain anymore. He doesn't even realize he is in the house until his mother has left him to go to the cupboards to find her little first aid kit for little accidents like these.

The antibiotic stings the scraped skin of his knee, but he keeps his eyes on his mother's face and his focus on her words. They are just little bits and pieces of comfort, forgettable and fuzzy and warm as a blanket.

"You did such a good job, darling; really, you did. It takes a bit to get used to riding a bike, and maybe your father let go a bit too soon. We'll get you all patched up though."

She looks up and smiles tenderly at him.

"You were so brave, baby. Not even a tear."

She bushes her lips on his knee, and any residue of pain remaining has completely disappeared; she has covered it with love.

He tries riding again a few days later and makes a complete circuit around the block without falling.

-o –

Now, an adult in the midst of the most death and destruction the modern world is yet to have seen, Winters feels like that boy frozen within the doorway. He is paralyzed, ice cold heart and searing hot veins, lips feeling beautifully burnt. He is almost painfully aware of the heart under his hands, the separate body he can only hope feels the same indiscernible swell of emotions within himself.

Roe's breath hitches, the hiccup of warmth against his neck enough to swing his camera of focus where it belongs.

"I'm sorry."

Surprisingly, it is Roe who says it first, the words void heat across Winters' skin. They don't mean anything, not really. Not when they are this close, one heartbeat and a single soul connected by two bodies. At this point, Winters does not even need to open his eyes to know Roe's are closed, that this apology is simply noise in a white-sound backdrop of dizzying snow and religious light. Winters says nothing; his vocal chords seem impaired, but his movements are not as he takes Roe's lips for another drawn-out kiss.

It is not random, nor messy. It is desperate and familiar and so innate. The sound of the choir is dulled by Roe's breathless breathing, the _thudthudthud_ beating along Winters' fingertips, the rustle of too-much clothing as Roe's hands knot themselves into the folds of rough fabric.

Roe has pulled back again, gasping little nothings in French that have Winters' mind reeling. Winters reaches up, to feel the bare skin of Roe's face – pale as porcelain, flushing in the most beautiful form of sanguinity Winters has seen, before or during this war. Roe's words stop, pause quickly as his breath, and Winters feels a thrill that he, _he_ has that effect on the man. To make him gasp, ramble, and silence within moments is exhilarating all in its own.

His heart lifts, hopeful and confident.

"We'll work this out," Winters whispers, his voice surprisingly calm and unsurprisingly affectionate. His hand grips tighter along Roe's arm, as though to keep both of them rooted, stable in this shaking moment.

Roe nods, faithful, candlelight dancing in the most wonderful ways in his dark eyes.

And in front of the house of God, Winters kisses Roe for a third time that night.


	4. Chapter 4

When he was little, Dick was frightened of the dark. In a naïve time where ghosts roamed the streets and ghouls lurked in the deepest corners of his bedroom, he would find himself wide awake and hoping his father would leave the light on in the hall just a few minutes longer.

He didn't cry though. He just stayed awake until he could not stand it any longer, then closed his eyes and went into fitful slumber.

Then, one night, he broke down and began to cry. Softly, of course, he did not want to be a nuisance, but his mother was at his side in a heartbeat. Her arms were warm, her shoulder soft, and she rocked him as shuddered. Then, she set him back into bed, made quite sure he was comfortable, and slid under the quilts with him. Though the lamplight came from behind her, her eyes gleamed and her smile was tender. She ran a slim hand through his hair, whispering comfort to him.

It seemed she knew he was at peace, being lulled into unconsciousness, for she kissed his forehead and said, "The angels are watching you, my love." Then she stood, tucking the covers, warm from her shared body heat, snug around him and left. She lingered in the doorway for hardly a second, then turned off the light; even as Dick counted her soft footfalls to the master bedroom, sleep overcame him, and he fell.

They are under a roof. This roof, albeit broken and worn, is one of many little comforts they find in the crumbling down. Another is mattresses. Real beds, even with dubious stains and uneven stuffing, are a blessing all their own. Every soldier takes full advantage, and the circles under their eyes seem to lessen ever-so-slightly.

And the warmth from another body next to him, that helps. Warm and quiet, fully clothed and weary, he lays next to Eugene Roe and studies the moonlight settle over his snow-pale face. He would reach out and run fingers over his skin, just to feel it and know it is truly there [_right here, finally here_] but the dark outline on the medic's eyelids are enough to ward him off. So he watches.

The rise and fall, inhale exhale, the beautiful rhythm of life circulate within this one body. It's perfect. Nearly perfect.

Until the cadence is broken, and Gene shifts, making a hardly-audible whimper that has Winters out of his trance in no time flat. The medic stiffens, rocks, moans a bit, and Winters is quick to grip his arm. Gene's mouth begins moving, and he is morbidly curious what he thinks of in his nightmares; but then he realizes that they are in the same war, _their war_, and he already knows.

"Gene. Gene, wake up."

Gene is being stubborn, clinging to horrors Winters cannot see - but he can see them so clearly it hurts so much and he doesn't want Roe lost in them, because he knows what happens to men he fall from the edge.

"Wake up, Gene, come on love, you have to wake up."

The endearment is new and alien on his tongue. It goes unnotices as Gene begins mumbling. Winters doesn't want to hear it, doesn't want to know, already knows_, does he dream about me the way I dream about him, oh God_ – and places his lips over Roe's and presses fiercely. Even with his eyes closed, Winters knows Gene is waking up because he stiffens, then stills, then relaxes. All in a matter of heartbeats counted between layers of flesh then cloth then skin.

Winters keeps pressing. His hand is a vice on Gene's arm. Something wet and warm is on his cheek. Roe presses back.

Moments and heartbeats and harsh, strained breaths, and another small and silent forever passes too quickly before Winters lets up, pulling away only just enough to give his lips room to form words.

"The angels are watching you, my love," he whispers, because now he's strong and he's needed and Roe is shaking in his arms.

"No," Gene murmurs. "They're watching us."

Silence follows, and the words of his new lover echo in Winters' dream like the flow of a river.


	5. Chapter 5

Dick flips through the pages of the book with one hand, training the flashlight on the page with his other. His arm begins to cramp, the torch is a heavy metal in his hand; he situates his elbow on his knee and hunches over the book in his lap. The pain alleviates from his arm and he continues his search.

Aha! There. On one page is a diagram, and oval of black with white dots and patterns. It reminds him of the activity books from one of his primary classes: following the numbers with a pencil to find the right image. He feels a bit more qualified in his task now, having at least some experience. He figures it's better than nothing.

Then he glances up, and the stars dance above his head. They scatter the sky, and unadulterated flood of light. Dick frowns back, daunted, unsure. Checks his book, back to the stars. There aren't that many white dots in his diagram and he can't identify the ones necessary for a constellation. Disappointed, he closes the book and continues to stare up at the stars.

The skies are not how he expected them to be.

The patrol has returned. Winters knows, because he's been watching, diligent in his concern for his men, true to his leadership, he waits, and he watches. And this time, while Nixon's off drinking with some other buddy who agrees in his taste for alcohol, he's not alone as he sits in the cold. Gene is there, right next to him, a warm weight to keep his fussing [or at least the outlet of such emotions, the twitching and fidgeting and other signs of impatience] to a minimum. It's nice. He doesn't feel as though he is alone in his worry.

He hadn't said anything as they waited; just sipped at the coffee Roe had given him and tries to make out figures in the stars. He never had an eye for constellations. He licked at his lips, about to ask Gene if he knew any, when he sees a flicker of light, hears a muffled cry. Subtle things, the sort he knows by heart. Winters gets to his feet immediately, disregarding the blanket as it falls away from his legs, and strains his sense for any other activity. His muscles are strained, taut; his mind is in a similar state as his body.

A hand falls onto his arm, and he almost jumps at the sudden plummet of being grounded. It's dark, and somehow he still manages to see the deep blue of Gene's eyes, gentle and understanding. The hand falls away, falls back to Gene's side, and the section of arm where it had rested for only the briefest of moments feels suddenly very cold without it.

They stand there for a long minute, all eyes and ears and strained hope. Another small forever. Winters wishes he had a notebook to catalogue all of these eternities; he would write them down, meticulous as a secretary, put every feeling he had in his gut in ink and paper. Then, he doesn't think he could possibly put what he feels into comprehensible words.

It's interrupted by a man, a third party, panting and panicked and stained in scarlet. He nods to his superior officer, but the look in his eye tells Winters he doesn't have the time to salute. He asks for Roe, tells him to hurry, that Jackson, he's, I'm not even, I don't know, please sir, oh God.

Gene flashes a look over his shoulder as he rushes off. Winters watches him leave. He's alone again, the stars blinking at him through a haze of smoke.


	6. Chapter 6

When he was eight, Richard watched as his mother dressed herself for a a date night with his father. He had been looking for her because it was bedtime and he was tired but couldn't sleep without a story and a good-night kiss. He went to her bedroom, and when he peered through the slightly ajar door he found her wrapped in a pink bath towel, pale skin pinkened from hot water, humming a tune as she laid a dress on the foot of his parents' bed. He opened the door a bit further, and the hinges creaked slightly.

"Mommy?"

She had smiled at him, picking him up and setting him carefully on the bed, next to the smooth black dress. Kind words came from her mouth, asking him why he wasn't in bed yet.

"I need a story."

"Ah," she said, understanding. "A story."

She reached into a dresser drawer, pulling out a handful of other fabrics. She sat on the adjacent side of the bed, towel falling, and began to put on various undergarments; her blue eyes were thoughtful, wandering.

"What kind of story, baby?"

Richard answered that he only knew of one kind of the story: the kind with a good guy and a bad guy and a beautiful girl in distress. She laughed slightly at this and paused, patting a thoughtful cadence on her bare knees.

"Once upon a time," she began, and the words that followed were wonderful and warm and blurred with love. She told about a stolen princess as she pulled up her tights, a handsome prince as she adjusted her garter, a menacing curse as she dried her hair, a courageous journey as she slipped on her dress, a magical kiss as she put on her shoes, and a happily ever after as she put on her pearls.

"What about after that?" he asked, genuinely curious, craving more words. He watched her struggle with the clasp to her necklace.

"After that?" She laughed, a fond thing. "No one knows what's after that, honey."

"Why not?"

"Because… Because we need to figure that out on our own." She clasped the necklace and turned towards him again.

"Where did you get those?"

"These?" She fingered the strong of pearls wrapped around her neck. Richard nodded. "Your daddy gave them to me for our wedding."

"Why?"

She laughed again. "Because when you love someone, you want to give them something special." Her blue eyes grew hazy again. "You want to give them the world, but you can't, so you give them a token to show them how hard you tried."

She glanced at her clock and gave him a kiss on the forehead. "I've gotta go, honey. The sitter will be here soon, so try to get to sleep, okay?" He nodded and slid off the bed.

He watched from his doorway as his mother slipped her hand into his father's own as they closed the door behind them.

Roe's fingers are warm from being wrapped within his own for so long a stretch of time. Even though his breathing is slow, his eyes are open; blue, deep blue. Winters loves that shade of blue.

He tightens his grasp on Roe's two hands caught between his own, like trying to keep a bird from flying away. But something about Roe's blue eyes tells him that he's not going to leave, that he's going to stay. Because that's just what Roe does – he sticks around, somewhere between stubbornness and loyalty, even if he knows everything is going to crumble between his fingers. He's been doing it throughout the war, and now he's doing it in this…

This relationship. Winters settles for that word for lack of any better. In his vocabulary, there is no word for what's been growing between the two of them, and he doesn't think there ever will be. Not a proper word, anyway.

Winters wonders, looking in those dark blue eyes, if this is what his father felt like. He wonders if he fell for his mother's eyes as he fell into them; wonders if the blue overtook him. He loved her enough to marry her, to live with her, to buy her a string of pearls. Enough to carry out a long, happy life with her with a son and a house with an apple tree on the green lawn.

The thought makes Winters' heart burn, just a bit, because he can't give Gene any of that. Not that Roe would want a string of white pearls – but he can't promise the medic a life beyond the war. A house, a lawn, a wedding day and kids and an apple tree with a big enough pocket of shade for both of them to sprawl out in during the warm weeks of summer.

He can't give Gene a peaceful life.

Dick clutches Gene's hand ever closer to his chest. Blue eyes blink at him, peaceful and happy.

But he can try his damndest.


End file.
